


Loki of Asgard Burdens Mortal with Glorious Purse

by ScotlandEvander



Series: Don't Ever Change [16]
Category: British Actor RPF, Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Comic-Con, Embarrassment, F/M, Gen, Handbags, Humor, Loki Does What He Wants, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Male Character, POV Multiple, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScotlandEvander/pseuds/ScotlandEvander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Smile, darling,” Tom says out of the corner of his mouth.</p>
<p>People are shouting at him, asking him who the hell I am.</p>
<p>It’s that moment I realize what he is doing and why he is doing it. </p>
<p>Oh, Tom Hiddleston, you fracking genius.</p>
<p>“This is Cricket Heidi of Chicago,” Tom booms in his Loki voice, letting go of me to address the crowd of photographers. “And she is burdened with glorious purpose.”</p>
<p>Am I smiling? Please, dear lord, let me be smiling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loki of Asgard Burdens Mortal with Glorious Purse

  
OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I’m on a plane.

I’m on a muthafracking plane!

And this time I will not be taking any sort of medication, as I’m only going to San Diego, so I ought to be totally with it when we land. There will be no declarations that I’m on a mission from God a-la _Blues Brother’s._

Should I be on this plane bound for San Diego? 

No. I should be remaining at home, locked in the basement sewing and packing purses, and cursing Tom Hiddleston.

But, my mom produced an intern. 

“This is Bethany,” she announced last week, pointing to a girl with bright purple hair, orange eyes and a pink thing stuck in her nose. 

I stared at my mother and wondered if she’d decided to take up smoking weed or something. Dropped some acid. Got a hold of those sleeping pills that make you see green bunnies or sleep drive. (In her case, sleep hire an intern with orange eyes.) 

(They were seriously orange. Like fugly purse orange. They MATCHED.)

(I wonder if she did that to get the job? Maybe that’s why my mom actually hired her? Because she’s already committed to suffering through the orange disaster that is Benedict & Door’s famous Tom Hiddleston color.) 

“Okay,” I said slowly, eyeing my mom and the kid over the sewing machine. 

I figured I could stab either with the scissors if either turned out to actually be an alien or something. I have really wicked fabric scissors. 

“She’s going to be our intern for the rest of the summer. I taught her how to sew when I used to teach lessons,” my mother continued, beaming at me. 

(My dad told my mom she needed a job when I graduated from college. So, instead of finding some sort of dead end retail job, as she’d been out of the job market since 1983, she decided to teach sewing lessons. Guess what? No one wants sewing lessons in this day and age. Well, okay, she had like four students. I wasn’t really paying attention. I was starting my first big person job, dating Jason who was still at college, and all around freaking out about life in general.) 

(What’s changed, really?)

(Well, other than the having a desk job and dating Jason.)

(Okay, a lot has changed. I know BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH. And I have a dog. I never thought I’d have a dog. I was terrified of them as a kid.) 

(Mostly because everyone had big dogs and they always, always knocked me over as a greeting when I showed up at friend’s abodes. Basil’s never knocked me over. She’s tripped me because she’s a STEALTH dog sometimes, but she’s never greeted me by ramming her head into my crouch or jumping on me. Usually, she ignores my existence.)

(Dumb dog.)

“She’s studying fashion design at IADT,” Mom went on, still beaming. 

She said it like I knew what the hell IADT was (I looked it up later. It stands for International Academy of Design and Technology). 

“She’s going to be helping me out while you’re gone.”

“Where am I going?”

As far as I knew, at that point, I wasn’t going anywhere. There was no where for me to go. 

“You’re going to go to San Diego,” Mom said, wearing a pavonine expression. 

So, here I am. On a plane. Going to San Diego.

Do I know why I’m going to San Diego? 

No, not really. 

Someone who studied with me in London lives in San Diego, but I haven’t talked to her in years and as far as I know my mother didn’t contact her to remind her I exist. The only other thing I know about San Diego is that Comic-Con takes place there every summer and it’s a thing (according to _The OC._ Yeah, Seth Cohen told me about Comic-Con. Then didn’t show me what it exactly was, because they didn’t actually go.)

So, since I doubt my mother contacted my long lost neighbor (she had the room across the hall from me), I think I might be going to Comic-Con. Also, the fact this plane is filled with people dressed up as comic book and movie characters kind of give it away. Someone was trying to shove an Iron Man head into the overhead bin for crying out loud. 

Now, the big question is: why did my mother go out of her way to assure I could go to Comic-Con of all things? 

* * *

I hate flights to California from Chicago. They aren’t long enough to sleep, yet they are long enough to give you jet lag. To make the whole jet lag even more supertastic, I got beaned in the head with Thor’s hammer.

Seriously.

Thor’s hammer fell out of the overhead bin and clocked me in the nose. (HA HA HA HA! I felt the thunder in my nose, just like Tom!) 

I’m amazed my nose is in once piece, if I’m honest. The person who owned this stupid prop apologized profusely, but I didn’t really care. 

I got beaned with Thor’s hammer.

Next thing you know, Loki’s stupid antler helmet is going try to poke my eye out. 

I elbow my way through the terminal trying to ignore my throbbing noise. I open my purse and search for the piece of paper my mother wrote the details to the hotel she booked me into. As I’m trying to find what I need, someone runs into me and I almost go flying to meet the ground with my face.

 This is so my day!

A guy wearing a full out _Star Wars_ costume just tried to run me over. Why the hell is he wearing his costume’s helmet? I mean I’ve seen lots of strangely dressed people, but this guy is totally over the top. And—

“Sorry!” says a British accent. “Didn’t see you. Quite difficult to see clearly.”

“Uh, yeah,” I mutter, rolling my shoulder and looking up at the guy.

Seriously, he’s tall. Like could be playing basketball tall. 

“Cricket?”

There’s another British voice. I turn around to turn. Oh, this is interesting. Mark Gatiss standing behind me. 

“It’s Mark?” he asks, eyeing the tall…Bobba Fett? I think it’s the guy who is hunting the heros and has the ship that flies at a ninety degree angle. ( _Stars Wars_ is a great movie, but it’s not exactly my thing. I’ve seen it, multiple times, but I’m not versed in it like I’m versed in say…Tom Hiddleston movies _._ ) 

“I know! Sorry! Uh, I’m….Cricket, yes” I finish lamely. 

I’d like to have my eye poked out by Loki’s helmet now, please. Mark Gatiss knows who I am, why on Earth did I just confirm who I am to him? 

Mark smiles, looking over at the tall _Star Wars_ man. Who, for some reason, is still loitering next to me. I didn’t manage to fall to the ground, so I’m not sure why he’s still standing here. He seemed to be in a rush. 

“There’s that guy from first class,” I over hear someone say as they pass us, both eyeing _Star Wars_ man. 

“He’s with Mark Gatiss!” someone else says.

Bobba Fett looks like he’d like to crawl into a hole. Not sure how I can tell this as I cannot see his face, but something about him screams GET ME TO A HOLE STAT. 

“Well, sorry for running into you, but I must dash,” Bobba Fett says, for some unknown reason hugging me.

And it doesn’t feel as strange as it should. 

He’s gone before I can figure it out, leaving me with Mark Gatiss, who informs me he was sent by Ben, who was told by my mother to send me to SD. 

“Did you know him?” Mark asks, staring in the direction Bobba Fett is still attempting to exit the airport. 

“Uh, no. I don’t think so,” I say, distracted. 

Ben’s behind this whole Send Door to Comic-Con.

“He seemed to know you,” Mark points out. 

“Everyone seems to think they know me till they know me,” I announce.

Okay. That made no sense. Thor’s hammer must have hit me harder than I thought. 

OoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

Tom hurried through the airport, shaking his head at his luck. Of course he’d almost knock Door over while wearing a Jango Fett costume, helmet and all. (It was the only costume the shop had that fit him height wise.) No one was supposed to know he was at Comic-Con early, yet he’d forgot to use the bland American accent he’d been using since he’d gotten on the plane (after going through security in his own clothing and as himself) in his shock at seeing Door in San Diego. 

What was she doing here? 

He grabbed a cab and took it to the hotel (still wearing the helmet) and arrived in his room without further incident. Upon locking the door, he removed the helmet for the first time since he’d donned it back in London and let out a sigh of relief. He sucked in fresh air for about a minute before he grabbed his cell phone. He smiled at the sight of the name on his call list and tapped it. 

“Hello?”

“Hello, cinnamon.” 

“Hey. So, did you make it?”

“Yes,” Tom said, shedding other pieces of the costume. “I flew the whole way in a Jango Fett costume.”

“Ah.”

“You’ve no idea who that is, do you?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

Tom smiled, then remembered why he’d called Pamela— other than to speak to her. He always wanted to speak with her. He’d discovered himself reaching for his phone more often since Pamela had entered his life and often he had to remind himself of the time difference and she’d likely not answer due to her job.

Tom currently was a rather large fan of texting, but she was only two time zones in front of him instead of six behind, so he decided he’d rather hear her voice than simply await her text. 

“Did I insult you because I don’t know who Django is?”

“Django? Where did you come up with that, dove?”

“Isn’t that what you said?”

“Jango Fett.”

“Oops, well, you know…”

“Oh, I do know. It’s no matter. Guess who I collided with at the airport?”

“I don’t know? Benedict? The Hobbit guy?”

Tom laughed. “The Hobbit guy?”

“Yeah, he’s on _Sherlock_ with Benedict. He looks kind of like a Hobbit.”

“You know what a Hobbit is, darling?”

“Yes. I’ve read the books. And I know they made those movies at some point,” Pamela admitted. “The guy looked like a Hobbit.”

“Well, he does play one,” Tom laughed. “He is Bilbo Baggins in _The Hobbit._ ”

“Seriously? He’s a real Hobbit?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s an actual human being.”

“Oh, you know what I meant,” Pamela huffed. “So, if not those people, who?”

“Door.”

“What?”

“Door and Mark Gatiss.”

“What is Door doing at the San Diego airport?”

“No clue, but Mark seemed to be picking her up.” 

“Huh. I don’t know. I wasn’t aware of Comic-Con’s existence till you announced you were going,” Pamela confessed.

Tom smiled, flopping down on the couch. “Of course you weren’t, darling dove.”

“You really ran into Door?”

“Yes. I don’t think flying agrees with her,” Tom said, kicking off his shoes. “She was quite out of it. Also, I think she broke her nose.”

“What?”

“Well, it appeared as if she’s been smashed in the face,” Tom admitted, remembering the way Door’s eyes were kind of bruised looking and her nose was rather red. “She also looked at me as if she as quite wrathful when I accidentally collided with her. Then appeared baffled when Mark materialized.”

“She’s always confused,” Pamela reminded Tom. “Especially the past month or so. I’m pretty sure if you asked her, she’d not be able to tell you the date or month. She might know the year.” 

Tom hummed. “I would agree with that. She looked as if she’d crash landed on an alien planet.”

“Maybe she did,” Pamela laughed. “I can imagine the kind of people who attend this thing. I mean, you were dressed in some sort of costume that hid your identity.”

Tom blinked a few time, then burst out laughing. It took him awhile to get ahold of himself enough to continue speaking. “Oh my. I never thought about that…the airport was filled with people already dressed in costumes and there was poor Door…looking all conventional and flummoxed.”

“Exactly. Now, you said Mark was there?”

“Yes. He seemed to be picking her up,” Tom repeated. “I wasn’t aware she’d struck up a friendship with him.”

“I don’t know anymore who she knows and who she doesn’t. But, if Benedict asked him…”

“She might be on good terms with Mark. She did spend quite a bit of time on the set of _Sherlock_ whilst she was visiting Ben,” Tom reminded Pamela. 

“True that, true that.” 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

This is so bizarre. 

First, my mother puts me on a plane to Cali.

Second, I feel the thunder in my nose thanks to a fake Mjolnir. 

Third, some overly tall guy runs me over in the airport dressed as somebody from _Star Wars_.

Fourth, Mark Gatiss (!!!!) picks me up from the airport and dumps me at a hotel that is a lot fancier than anything my mother would book me. (Granted, she didn’t, hence…)

Fifth, I find out Ben is behind all of this. He got me passes to a billion things— panels, showings, and other things that I wasn’t even aware one could do at a convention. 

So, since I could basically go to whatever I wanted, I went to the Marvel panel tonight and what happened?

Oh, I got to see the new trailer for the new _Thor_ movie, sure, but do you know what else happened? 

Thomas Muthafracking Hiddleston happened. 

If any star were to show up dressed as his character, it would have to be Thomas Muthafracking Hiddleston.

OF COURSE! 

What else would he dress up as? A Storm Trooper? 

And I think he completely killed half the audience and made the other have mentally unbalanced.

And somewhat violent as I’ve gotten another freaking hammer to the face.

At least this time it wasn’t in the nose. I don’t need my right eye, seriously. 

Muthafracking Hiddleston.

At least the trailer was good. 

“DOOR!”

If this person shouting my name sounding all Tom-Hiddleston-like isn’t actually him, I’m going to become lachrymose. All out water works right here in the mists of Comic-Con overrun by Loki’s Army. 

I turn around and find myself faced with Loki wearing Tom’s face. (Loki would NEVER smile like that.)

(At least he’s not wearing his helmet, as he’d poke my eye out.) 

“I was hoping you had a back stage pass!”

I nod dumbly. “Yeah. Ben tricked me out.” 

I don’t even know how I got backstage other than I followed some signs, flashed the badges, and whala! Here I am. Backstage. No one seemed to care I was wondering around aimlessly either. 

“Ah! I was wondering what you were doing here,” Tom says, holding his hands behind his back and falling in Loki Stance. “Are you free? What happened to your face?”

“Free?”

“There’s a gathering. You can meet a few more people,” Tom offers. “What happened to your face?”

I stare at him blankly. “This is wrong on too many levels.”

I can’t go to a gathering. There’ll be famous people there. I don’t do well around well-known people. 

Or people in general, it seems. I got on a plane and felt the thunder in my nose. I went to a panel, got the thunder in my eye. 

“Dorothea, what happened to your face?”

“THOR’S MUTHAFRACKING HAMMER!”

Tom stares at me, gobsmacked. “Someone struck you with a hammer?”

“Not on purpose. I just…keep getting…pushed around, knocked over, and hammered.”

“You’re hammered? 

I start and turn around to find myself faced with Chris Evans and Scarlet Johansson. 

Man, he looks odd in person.

That is bad, Door. You don’t tell someone they look strange in person. Actually, if I am honest, he looks bizarre in any other role I’ve seen him in other than Captain America. There is just something…off about him when he’s not Captain America.

At least he’s lost the beard.

“Even though I saw you like this for months when we filmed the movie, it’s still strange,” Chris is saying as he slings his arm around Tom’s shoulder. It seems the conversation moved on while I stared. Chris looks at me. “So, you’re hammered?”

I’m so glad I did something with my hair. And decided to put my contacts in and not wear my dorky glasses. 

I almost wore the glasses. Because they are totally Clark Kent.

Only I don’t look as good as Clark Kent in them. I look like a dork. 

“I got hammered. With an actual hammer,” I correct, making a gesture to my face. “Multiple times.” 

Great. I’ve got a black eye (or eyes, I’m not sure). 

“Chris, Scarlett, this is Door,” Tom says. “Or Cricket. She has clearly been hammered in the face, and is not drunk.”

Chris looks massively confused, cocking his head to the side and giving Tom a look. “I thought that girl at the MTV awards was Cricket.”

“I’m Cricket Heidi,” I announce, sticking out my hand. “Or Door.”

Scarlett appears to think I’m mentally insane. Little does she know that she’s hit the bullseye. I am insane. At least I look the part with my tricked out hammered face.

Chris shakes my hand, while keeping hold of Tom. 

Yeah, he will protect you from the crazy person named after an insect and a thing used to keep people out. (Door, thing used to keep the crazy people out. LOL.) 

“I’m not Pamela, nor am I dating him,” I clarify. “Mostly because I think Pamela would kill me and have you seen him?”

“Most of the world’s seen him,” Scarlett intones dryly. 

“And I think they’d date him,” Chris adds.

I let out an annoyed noise and Tom grins, knowing what I’m going to say next.

“I just like him for his acting!” I burst out, flapping my hands around. “Just his acting! Yeah, I know he’s not ugly, but I don’t choose based on looks!”

“And Pamela does?” Tom inquires.

“She liked you for your _Wallander_ hair! Or she did. I’m guessing since she spent an entire day with you not knowing you were _Wallander_ Hair Boy, she likes you for more than your hair.”

Chris and Scarlett look completely lost.

Oh, yeah, baby, I know how to make a good first impression. Remember that time I met Benedict Cumberbatch covered in sweat and grass stains and my dog barked at him? Oh, and remember the first time I met Tom Hiddleston and I had bed head and more than likely pillow creases on my face? 

I am not meant to meet famous people.

“I am not friends with any thing that resembles Thor’s hammer. It loathes me. No matter who owns it,” I rant, gesturing wildly at my face. “And, heck, I’m not friends with Basil either! This is all her fault! If she had just stayed where I fracking put her, then I’d never gotten bludgeoned in the nose, almost lost my right eye, and I wouldn’t be making a spastic lummox of myself in front of prominent personages. It’s become a praxis!” 

“What is she talking about?” Chris stage whispers to Tom. 

Tom grins, looking at Chris out of the corner of his eye. “I’ve no idea. That’s the lovely thing about Door. You never know what she might start babbling about or what words she’ll select.”

“This is it! I am never meeting famous people again! I am not friends with Ben. This is his peccadillo. No, I was right before, it’s really Basil’s misdeed. If she hadn’t decided she wanted to emancipate herself and go running at him across the field, I’d never met him, I wouldn’t be here, and I wouldn’t be up to my ears in ugly, horrid, orange purses. SERIOUSLY, do you know how many of those things I’ve seen today?”

“You made those things?” Scarlett asks.

“YES! Every blasted one!”

I loose control and grab at my hair. 

“Did you know I made that one Tom had as a test bag? It wasn’t meant for mass production! Cretinous! How was I to know Pamela take it on her big European adventure and hand it off to Tom Hiddleston! If I’d known she’d do that, I’d never given it to her and I’d done what I usually do with test bags gone wrong!”

“Bin them?” Tom sweetly offers.

“YEAH!”

Everyone is staring at me. Not just Chris and Scarlett. Anyone within earshot is staring at me. 

I need a hole. Stat.

“Ah, Cricket,” another British voice says from behind me. “I see you’ve made some friends.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go so far,” I mutter. “Take me away before I make more dontopedalogy remarks.” 

Mark quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t whisk me away. Instead he starts talking to Tom and company while I hide behind him. I’ve no clue what the hell he’s doing here at the Marvel shindig, but at the moment I don’t care. 

I kind of like Scarlett’s dress. I wonder…no. I’d never be able to afford it. The nicest dress I own is from White House Black Market and I got it off eBay (mostly because it went on sale and the store only had size zero, which I could get zipped up— shockingly— all the way till my boobs. I don’t have huge boobs, either. Nor have I worn a size zero since I was in high school, but I got it zipped around my waist. That was so shocking, I almost bought it even though it didn’t zip up all the way). 

“Who is Basil?”

I start (again) to find Scarlett speaking to me and we’re walking somewhere. When the hell did we start walking? 

“My dog.”

“You’re dog is named Basil?”

“Yeah.”

“And who is Ben?”

“Benedict Cumberbatch,” I say, wondering why if she knew about the purses she didn’t know that.

“Oh! I guess it makes sense then you know all the British people,” she laughs. “So, you’re the girl who opened up the handbag line with Cumberbatch?”

“Yeah. That’s me. Guilty as charged.”

“Why are you here?”

I give her a look and say, “I’ve got no idea. My mom put me on a plane, Mark picked me up at the airport, and Ben left me a video message telling me I deserve to have fun and a break. I think he must be mental, as so far…I’ve gotten a hammer in the nose, a hammer in the eye, run over by some overly tall guy on a Bobba Fett costume, and I don’t deal well with jet lag.”

“Is that it?” she inquires as someone hands her a black bag of some sort. She opens it and starts walking backwards in front of me, shifting through the bag. 

“I don’t know. Where are we going?”

“The party. There’s a carpet we gotta walk down,” Scarlett says, holding bottles of makeup to my face. “Wow, you’re pale. You a natural redhead?”

I can hear the cameras.

I nod and look for the hallway or walkway for us non-famous people but can’t seem to find one. 

I know they have them. Pamela used it when she went to the MTV Movie Awards. I watched the whole thing (first time since high school) and I never SAW her. (And then I re-watched it, and still didn’t see her, so as far as I know she wasn’t there.)

(I know she was there. Later pictures surfaced, and why would she lie about going? She totally freaked out.) 

(Ah, those were the days…)

“Here, stand here and I’ll fix your face as soon as I find some white,” Scarlett mutters, steering me out of the stream of people heading towards the cameras. 

No. I am vacating. I am not going to be painted white.

God, that’s sad. She doesn’t even have a shade foundation pale enough in that big ole bag of tricks someone handed her. 

I am a vampire.

Who is vacating. Now. 

“Darling, where are you going?” Tom grabs me by the arm and hauls me over to the side where Scarlett wanted me to begin with. She had clearly found what she wanted, as she’s standing at the ready to attack me with a makeup brush. She attacks my face, lightly dapping at the areas that are likely purple, green, black, blue and whatever other colors one gets when happenstance they get hammered multiples times.

I’m not sure why she’s doing this other than to save me from later embarrassment in explaining why I look like I got beat up. 

I did get beat up. 

By a hammer.

“Where did Mark go?”

“He had a phone call,” Tom says, turning away from me to address Scarlett. “Thank you for doing this. I doubt she wants to continue telling everyone she got hammered.”

“Well, she could just say was punched. Or not phrase it as she’s got hammered,” Scarlett suggests.

“But, I did get hammered. Twice! Or three times. I can’t remember. I’m still amazed I haven’t gotten a horn to the eye.”

“Loki’s horned helmet?” Scarlett asked.

“Exactly! Got hammered, now just need to get horned.”

Scarlet burst out laughing, followed by Tom. Hey, at least I’m amusing!

Scarlett finishes with my face, adds some blush, lipstick and then smooths my hair down. (It’s likely going bonkers from the humidity and stuff, not to mention my earlier tugging.) 

“She good to go?” Chris inquires. 

“Yes, I think so. Doubt anyone will see. This is good stuff,” Scarlett says as a mysterious person whisks away the bag. “You ready?” 

“What?” I squeak.

“Come along,” Tom says, dragging me along while wearing that annoyingly cheery smile. 

Oh, how I loathe Tom Hiddleston. I’m likely the ONLY person on EARTH who LOATHES the man. 

I try to dig my heels in. I’m not dressed to be photographed with Loki, let alone photographed for the hoards of people who will be posting every single damn picture tomorrow on Tumblr, Pinterst, Twitter, Facebook, and wherever the hell people post pictures these days. I’ve been hammered in the face! I know Scarlett did something to make it look better, but it was dark, and well, they have flashes!

Tom drags me onto the Comic-Con carpet, iron grip on my arm so I can’t go anywhere. Chris and Scarlett amble behind me. Tom beams for the cameras, standing front and center.

I loathe Tom.

Oh, how I hate, loathe, detest, despise, and abominate Tom Muthafrackign Hiddleston, oh, let me count the ways.

“Smile, darling,” Tom says out of the corner of his mouth.

People are shouting at him, asking him who the hell I am.

It’s that moment I realize what he is doing and why he is doing it. 

Oh, Tom Hiddleston, you fracking genius.

“This is Cricket Heidi of Chicago,” Tom booms in his Loki voice, letting go of me to address the crowd of photographers. “And she is burdened with glorious purpose.”

Am I smiling? Please, dear lord, let me be smiling. 

A hideous orange bag appears out of nowhere in Tom’s hands. He holds it up for the crowd before he places it in my hands and makes a Loki face for the cameras. 

I stare at the purse in my hands.

I feel an arm around my shoulders and I know I must look like a loon. 

A total loon with a freaking orange cherry on top. 

Flashes. Shouting. I’m pushed off to the side so they can get shots of people who the wider world will care about. I continue walking till I’m away from the cameras and find myself in a dark, quiet hallway. I can hear the noise of the cameras and photographers, as well as the noise of the party I guess I’m supposed to go to.

What am I supposed to do with this purse? 

I turn it over in my hands. It’s one of the ones from Benedict & Door, not Cricket Heidi. (If I’m honest, B&D purses are A TON nicer and better quality.) Curious, I open it up and find it actually belongs to someone as there’s stuff in here.

Jesus.

I look around for Tom, but fail to see him. 

I just stole someone’s purse!

* * *

It takes me an hour to track Tom down at this party I’ve managed to find myself at (don’t ask me how I managed to get here. I’m still unsure. I hope to wake up in my bed at home and find this was all some sort of whacky Hollywood nightmare). I hand Tom the purse and inform him he better get it back to the person it belongs to or I’m telling Twitter he stole someone’s purse.

“It belongs to my PA for the trip,” Tom cheerily says. “She had it when I met her this afternoon. It was quite a frisson, of course.”

“Of course.”

I shove the handbag at him then I high tail it out of the celebrity filled room before I can make a bigger fool of myself. 

* * *

The photos aren’t that bad. 

Somehow, even in my petrified (and hammered to the face) state, I smiled naturally and I look okay. (Clearly whatever Scarlett put on my face worked. It ought to have. I think it’s still on there and I’ve washed my face. A few times.) Granted, I wish I was dressed a little fancier…like in my dress from WHBM. That was what I wore when I invaded the press junket for _Into Darkness_. At least I didn’t go in slob mode like I did that afternoon. I did put some effort into my appearance that night. 

I’m kind of channeling Zooey Dashenel minus the dark tights. I think it’s the faux-vintage dress I chose to wear. It’s got cameras on it, how ironic. Granted, I got it because it reminded me of that adorable dress Clara wore on that episode of _Doctor Who_ where they are running around inside the TARDIS, but I couldn’t find that one, so I got the camera dress. It’s got a similar collar thing going for it. And sleeves. 

My phone buzzes. I pick it up and see it’s from Pamela.

_Cats out of the bag, I see_.

**_Yeah. Loki introduced me to the world. And gave me a purse._ **

_I noticed. At least no one thinks you’re dating Tom any longer._

**_No, now you’re just a mysterious girl who is in the Air Force and hasn’t been seen with Tom since the spring._ **

_Really?_

**_Sure. I don’t know. What year is it? 1999? 92? 2006? Maybe it’s actually 2014!_ **

_I don’t think I could handle everyone knowing. I’ve got enough trouble with all the wives in the IP class knowing. (It’s July 21, 2013, BTW)_

**_And their friends. And their families. And anyone who reads their crap online._ **

**_Holy crapola! I MISSED BEN’S BIRTHDAY._ **

_FML._

**_Do you even know what that means?_ **

**_I think we’re having two very different conversations. Why are you FMLing? I forgot Ben’s birthday!_ **

**_FML. What am I going to do?_ **

_Wish him a happy belated birthday?_

**_ORUIOEJLKSDJFLSDKJFLSjlkfjdskfosidjfaklsdjfaoisjdfal;sdjf_ **

**_I don’t even know where he is. Where is he?_ **

_He’s your friend, not mine._

**_That would upset him greatly, Pamela._ **

_It would? I haven’t spoken to him since I left London._

**_Didn’t you send him a thank you note?_ **

_Yes. Of course. He let me stay at his flat and fed me._

**_HA!_ **

_He didn’t respond._

**_How do you respond to ‘Thank you so much for letting Tom Hiddleston sleep on your couch, not telling me who he was, and not waking him up in the morning so he was there to whisk me off my feet?’_ **

**_Hello?_ **

**_Pamela?_ **

**_FML._ **

* * *

I’m home. 

I went to Comic-Con and I forgot Ben’s birthday. He didn’t seem to care. He’s at a wedding or something. Or he’s doing a wedding, as he made some joke he’s available for gigs now. I’m too confused to deal with his odd sense of humor and actually make sense of it. 

What the frack do you get Benedict Cumberbatch for his birthday? 

Pamela went and got a nice watch for her birthday from Tom. Maybe I should ask Tom. He seems to be an awesome gift giver.

No. Not asking Tom. Who knows what’d I’d end up with?

Ben was kind of distracted when I called him in a panic the moment I realized I forgot his birthday— which was in the middle of the night or something for him, so maybe that was why he was kind of…weird.

Okay. I’ll get something…I’ll get him another denim shirt. He seems to like those. Or maybe I’ll get him a DIFFERENT shirt. God, he and Tom like wear the same two shirts all the time. What gives? 

OMG. 

I seriously went to Comic-Con, something I NEVER in a million years figured I’d do. That kind of thing is so not my deal. Why did Ben think I would enjoy it?

No clue. 

Did I enjoy it?

I don’t know. I’m liking the fact when I checked the list of blogs I read this morning, I WAS MENTIONED on one.

Granted, I’ve been mentioned several times over since Mark Gatiss plucked me out of obscurity and tweeted about me, but this was a blog that deals with my chosen livelihood: purses.

It’s a purse blog.

Cleverly called PurseBlog, but hey, it’s the easiest thing to find when you want to find a blog about purses. I have been religiously reading it since 2007 when I stumbled on it trying to figure out how much a Birkin really costs. (I saw a re-run of the _Gilmore Girls_ ep when Logan (how I hate him) gave Rory a Brikin bag.) 

I’ve been reading the blog ever since and daydreaming of making an appearance. When I started my line back in Del Rio in the back bedroom, I had a pipe dream of it leading me to being the next Rebecca Minkoff. I never thought I’d blow up to the point I’d be considered on par with the likes of Stella McCartney or anything (or even Rebecca Minkoff if I’m honest. I’d settle for Trina Trunk. (I know she doesn’t do handbags, but I love her bedding.))

I’m currently staring at a picture of ME and MY PURSE on PURSEBLOG. 

I’m not sure how I got there. 

I was sure that a blog like PurseBlog would ignore Comic-Con. 

Why am I on their blog?

I can’t even bring myself to read what they have to say about the horrid orange thing that is in my hands while I stand in front of the Comic-Con labeled backdrop with Loki of Asgard. 

I click off the blog and stare open tab for my own website (yes, I like staring at my own website. It still shocks me it’s mine and there are photos of Tom Hiddleston and Irene Adler all over it). I open a new tab and go to the other website I’ve dreamed of being on, even though if you end up on it, it’s not exactly a good thing. 

I scroll through the entires till I find the one of their round up on the fashions of Comic-Con. 

I get to page six and see Tom alone and let out a breath I failed to know I was holding. It’s a shot from the day he made his official Tom Hiddleston appearance. (So he’s wearing his usual blue suit with a white shirt. When all else fails, Tom wears a white dress shirt and Ben wears a chambray one.) 

There is no picture of me with my purse.

Oh, well. You live and learn (and then get Luvs). 

I hit the link to see all the site’s Comic-Con posts. I’m a sucker for looking at badly dressed celebs. (Hence why I read this website on a daily basis.) I find a post of a mashup of celebs fashion disasters, mostly ones the two writers didn’t know where to put, but still wished to write about. I happily hit the link and go through the shots, laughing at the commentary. (Another reason I enjoy this website. It’s maintained by two women who write YA books and are HILARIOUS. I might not like Britney Spears, but I love _their_ Britney Spears. If that makes sense.) 

I get to the last slide and stop dead. 

There I am. 

Little old me: the unknown little purse maker in the camera print dress. 

I stare at the image, which is a different one than used on PurseBlog. I’m holding the orange thing in my hands as I was just after Loki handed it to me, staring at it with a very similar expression Tom wore in that viral photo Pamela took. Tom doing full-on Loki, one hand on my shoulder while the other one is held up as he tells the crowd I’m burdened with a glorious something or other. 

I trail my eyes over to read what they wrote.

_Everyone meet Cricket Heidi, designer of the fugliest handbag to ever explode all over the internet! Now, she can dress herself (she’s adorbs!) but, everyone is mostly looking at the fugly thing in her hands. Or Loki. Oh, okay. They are looking at Loki._

Okay. That’s not so bad. I know that purse is FUGLY. 

I’m more in shock they said I can dress myself. 

I close the tab and stare at my website, ignoring the constant ping noise the open email client makes each time I get an order. It’s pinging more since I got home from Comic-Con.  

I’d like to hate both Tom and Ben for making all my dreams come true by sending me to a geek fest, but I think I’m in too much shock. 


End file.
